


Wedding Favors

by princesszaf



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M, So Who Cares, but it's a drabbly 2am mobile written mess anyway, i just realised that the tags sort of take away from the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesszaf/pseuds/princesszaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because obviously, sex is the only solution when you're bitter and drunk after your best friend's wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding Favors

**Author's Note:**

> this was so self indulgent im sorry

"How did the two of you meet, then?"

Mark's gasping, arching into the shorter man's touch, rivulets of sweat trickling down his neck and staining the crisp collar of his shirt. There's a doorknob digging into his spine, a ridiculously hot guy pressing up against him and he's having a hard time formulating coherent thought - really, who blames him?

His reply comes belatedly and breathless. "Who?"

A laugh against his skin, strip of his jaw the man had been devouring. "Jackson. The groom."

It's curious how Mark's body immediately stiffens. He's quick to open his eyes and when he does, he finds the other man looking, a strangeness in his gaze. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, from bitterness or arousal, he isn't sure. "He, uh. Best friend since high school."

"Does he know you love him?"

The shove at the man's chest is almost involuntarily. He's pushed back a couple steps, almost stumbles and trips on a book lying on the floor. It's his journal, Mark realises, a documentation of six months' worth of angst and self deprecation, of repressed longing jotted down in ink.

Mark looks up at him, cheeks burning, and he straightens his bowtie. He runs a hand through his hair, sniffs defensively, and pats down his jacket.

"That's it. Leave."

And he's got the audacity to laugh. It's an ugly sneer, the sort you know is the trademark of the disillusioned, the sort Mark can empathise with. It's infuriating, and Mark want to punch his pretty fucking face.

"You weren't the only one snubbed tonight. At least he had the grace to appoint you his best man," and he's speaking more to himself than Mark, picking up the leather bound notebook from the floor and placing it carefully on the bedside table. "Means he cares about you. Doesn't even matter if it's platonic, because love is love, and we're greedy savages for it."

There's a weighted pause.

"Man, what the fuck do you want," Mark's deadpan is almost weary.

"You," and it's startling how automatic the response is, how his eyes blaze with a scorching fire, how it's raw and bold and so volatile on someone so polished.

And a prolonged couple seconds later. "Well, not you. I want you in this moment, of course, I can't stop thinking about how you'd feel in me. Or me in you, but that's not the point. I lost a bit of my heart today, too."

He ends it with an awfully nonchalant shrug. Mark wants to break a bone or two.

Instead, he's crossing the distance and vehemently pinning his companion against a wall, knocking over the journal and a pack of menthol cigarettes. Their lips meet, he finds those deft hands exploring his body again, and he's biting onto the other's lower lip, hard.

"For being a dick," Mark explains. Awfully nonchalant.

His laugh is light and clear.

He's unbuttoning Mark's trousers and slipping a hand into his underwear. "Aha," is the noise near his collarbone, and Mark's dropping his head down onto the other's shoulder, his moan grieved and ragged. "The wedding favors."

"Stop talking," Mark's rasping. There were better things for that mouth to do, like return to leaving love bites all over Mark's chest. He doesn't know how it happened - but his jacket's on the floor with another, his tie's loosened around his neck and his shirt's indecently unbuttoned with only a measly one holding it from the bottom.

"You don't even know my name," he's laughing, stroking Mark's cock. "A figure from his past, a sunken ship. Dreadful how he dared to invite me. Pathetic how I RSVPed."

Mark doesn't give a shit. Mark wants that hand to never stop.

Mark's thinking of Jackson because he should be around the same height. Mark's thinking of Jackson because neither can shut the fuck up.

"Good thing you never told him how you felt, Mark," and there's a catch in Mark's breath. He's looking up at Mark with dishevelled hair and bitten lips, the same fire in his eyes, and Mark's biting down onto his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut. "Good fucking thing."

Fervent lips meet Mark's and his orgasm rocks through his body. His cum splatters against the guy's trousers, the wall, his trousers. "I want to suck you off," he murmurs against an ear, tugging at the earlobe with his teeth, because reciprocation is always fair.

He's getting shoved down to his knees. Mark finds the button, pops it open. Sees his prize in all its commando glory, and his laugh is short and surprised. "So, when you fuck me with that, do I call you by your name or will 'Jackson' work?"

He fucking loves the other man's laugh. It's thundering this time, and Mark's pleased with himself. "I'm Jinyoung," he offers, and Mark's hand wraps around the base of his cock. "And only if you're willing to let me call you Jaebum."


End file.
